You Are Here (14 page)

The day she turned seven, an entire conference room of world-renowned anthropologists sang “Happy Birthday” to her in a hotel in San Diego. The foremost expert on Native American culture gave her an arrowhead, and the keynote speaker—a man so old the whole podium shook beneath his hands—asked whether she wanted to come up and help him with his speech.

She didn’t.

For her tenth birthday Emma’s parents threw her a small dinner party at home, where she—the guest of honor—was the youngest one by at least thirty years. The dean of the college spilled wine on her party dress, and the conversation quickly turned to the role of birthday wishes in traditional fairy tales. After she blew the candles out from atop an organic carrot cake, a biology professor leaned over and asked Emma what she’d wished for.

She pretended not to hear him.

All she’d ever wanted was a normal birthday, with a swimming pool or a magic show, a big-nosed clown twisting balloons into dogs, cupcakes with sugary frosting, and ice cream melting on plastic plates. But most years the big day was instead colored by gifts like maps and bug boxes, puzzles and history books, things she was told she’d come to appreciate someday, though as the years ticked by and the pile of unused presents in her closet multiplied, Emma began to seriously doubt that that day would ever come.

But now her seventeenth birthday was just four days away, and here she was hurtling toward North Carolina, carried south along I-270 by Peter Finnegan and his stolen blue convertible. And in a rare display of all those things that had so far eluded her in life—determination and persistence and dogged curiosity—she was secretly hoping to spend her birthday on her own terms, at the resting place of the person who’d once shared it with her.

They were well into Maryland when Emma took charge of the music, switching off the jazz station Peter had found and popping in a CD instead. After listening to the same song four times in a row, Peter leaned forward and jabbed at the stop button.

“Hey,” Emma said, reaching to turn it back on.

“How can you listen to the same thing over and over again?”

She shrugged. “I’ll probably listen to it a thousand times in a row, then never play it again.”

He shook his head. “You’re nuts.”

“Nuts is a relative term in my family.”

Peter turned off the expressway, and the road quickly tapered off into a single lane, which wound through great swaths of farmland, the fields quartered off into neat slices of brown and green.

“Are we lost?” Emma asked, reaching for one of the many maps that wallpapered the back of the car. The dog was sitting squarely on top of the pile and looked greatly put out when forced to scoot over.

“We’re fine,” Peter said. “It’s just nice to get off the highway now and then.”

Emma frowned over the tangle of squiggles and lines on the map, trying to locate their whereabouts amid an alphabet soup of stars and dots and unfamiliar names. “How do you know where you’re going?”

“I just do,” Peter said, obviously pleased with himself as they left behind the billboards and gas stations for a series of small towns with white churches and general stores and vegetable stands.

“Okay then, Columbus,” Emma said, tossing the map behind her again.

“Columbus got lost, actually,” Peter said. “So not the best example.”

“And you think
I’m
nuts.”

“You are,” he told her. “But it’s not such a bad thing. Some of the most interesting people I know are a little bit nuts.”

“Like my family?”

Peter rubbed a hand over his jaw and gave a little laugh. “They’re not as strange as you think they are,” he said. “They’re
interesting
. There’s a difference.”

Emma shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” he said. “Besides, have you ever thought maybe you’re just as interesting as they are?”

“I’m not,” she told him flatly.

“I don’t know,” Peter said. “I think maybe it’s too soon to tell.”

They stopped for lunch at a seafood stand with checkered tablecloths and menus shaped like giant lobster claws. They were far enough from the coast, but the air still smelled salty, and the other customers were all laughing over their lunches. Emma leaned forward with her elbows on the table and smiled.

“What?” Peter said, looking at her suspiciously. She didn’t blame him. Only this morning she’d been about ready to leave him in Gettysburg, but now the heat of the day had burned off and the dust had drifted away. In the past twenty-four hours the car had broken down and she’d somehow managed to pick up a stowaway dog and an unlikely partner in crime. But here they were, sitting in Maryland with the sun on their faces and the smell of seafood thick in the air; they’d made it this far, and suddenly that was all that seemed to matter.

“Nothing,” Emma said, still grinning from behind her menu.

After they ordered, they watched the other customers cracking the tough shells of the lobsters and letting the juice run down their bare arms as they ate. Peter pulled a map from his back pocket and spread it out on the table between them, smoothing the creases along the wooden slats.

“So, I found a map of the town where Nate lives,” he said. “The one where you were born. And where I assume we’re headed.”

“Where?”

He looked up at her blankly. “In North Carolina.”

“No, I mean where’d you manage to find a map of it?”

“Oh,” he said. “In the trunk. Anyway, did you know there are three different cemeteries there?”

Emma shook her head.

“Do you know which one it is?”

She bit her lip, but said nothing. She simply hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.

“That’s okay, I’m sure Nate will know,” he said. Emma must have looked stricken at this—the thought of having to explain herself to her family—because Peter reached over and quickly spun the map so it was facing her. “Or you can just close your eyes and point, and we’ll go to whichever’s closest.”

She smiled at him gratefully, clapped a hand over her eyes, and jabbed a finger at the map. When she looked up again, Peter was marking the spot with a pen, humming over the grids in cheerful concentration.

“Okay, then,” he said after a moment. “At least we know where we’re headed now.”

The dog began to squirm beneath the table, eyeing a little boy who was picking at a piece of corn bread. There was a small grocery store beside the restaurant, and Peter walked over to see whether they carried dog food. He came back a few minutes later carrying a small bag of kibble, which he poured onto a paper plate and set on the ground. But the dog only sniffed at it, then went back to eyeing the bread, and when their corn bread came, Emma passed her portion underneath the table.

“He’s gotten spoiled,” Peter said, kicking at the bag of dog food. “Or else he has no clue what it is.”

Emma licked the crumbs from her hand. “Maybe he’s just got good taste. We’ll try again at Annie’s house.”

“Will she be okay with us bringing him?”

“I don’t know if she’ll even be okay with
us
,” Emma said, forcing a laugh.

“Right,” said Peter, but he looked nervous.

“It’ll be fine,” she told him, though she wasn’t really sure. She hadn’t seen Annie since Christmas, when she’d brought home her boyfriend, Charles, a political analyst for the
Washington Post
. He’d seemed mildly horrified by the chaos that reigned in the Healy household, which only grew worse during the holidays. He’d since moved into Annie’s apartment, and Emma wasn’t all that certain he’d appreciate his girlfriend’s kid sister dropping by with her buddy the Civil War aficionado and the three-legged mutt they’d picked up at a Jersey rest stop.

“Have you ever been before?” Emma asked him, leaning back as the waiter set down their plates and trying not to meet the eye of the lobster on hers.

“To DC?” he asked, grabbing the butter. “Nope.”

“Where
have
you been?”

“New York City.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he said.

Emma studied his face as he bent over his lobster, working his fork to split the shell with the expertise of a chef. There was so much she didn’t know about him. They’d grown up next door to each other, but she’d never even been inside his house. He’d come over to hers, of course, but then so had the whole town. Their front door was always open, and there was a constant stream of people filtering inside to join them, whether for a family dinner or a fireside discussion about the plight of polar bears in the Arctic Circle.

But Peter had a tendency to hang back, always unnervingly quiet when she was around. Her parents seemed to think he was talkative and engaging, but Emma thought it was possible that she’d heard him speak more in the last twenty-four hours than in all the previous years she’d known him. It wasn’t that he was shy, necessarily. He just seemed to be always measuring out his words, thinking before he spoke in a way that Emma couldn’t ever manage.

Growing up, he’d always been nothing more than the kid from next door, the one who wore glasses and had a funny haircut and whose pants were always a couple of inches too short. But Emma was realizing now that Peter was the kind of person who tended to get overlooked. He was unfailingly patient and genuinely polite, but he was also surprisingly confident, capable and dependable and utterly sure of himself, and she was suddenly grateful to have him along with her. Because it’s exactly these sorts of people—the ones who everyone’s always underestimating—that you want at your side when you’re running away from home, or driving the length of the country, or feeling somewhat confused as to your own illogical intentions.

“My dad was never big on family vacations,” Peter was saying now, half hidden by the tablecloth as he smuggled his share of corn bread to the hungry dog.

Emma tilted her head. “My parents weren’t either.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

“I’ve been to lots of colleges,” she corrected him. “Lots of universities and lecture halls and conference rooms.”

“I can’t wait to get to places like those.”

“We
live
in a place like that.”

“Yeah, but it’s different. I mean, don’t you want to go away for school?”

She shrugged. “My parents get free tuition there. And it’s not like I’d get in anywhere better, you know?”

“But don’t you want a choice? It’s a great school if you’re into history or literature or sociology. But what if you wanted to be a doctor or something?”

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, laughing. “Have we met?”

“You could be a doctor if you wanted.”

“Well, it’s lucky I don’t, then,” she said, glancing down at the dog beneath the table. She thought of her family and their books, the way everything came so naturally to them. “I’m awful at science.”

Peter set down his fork. “All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t limit yourself.”

“What about you, then?” she asked, eager to shift the focus from her and her academic failings. “Off to see the world? College in London? Masters in Paris?”

Peter smiled. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”

“And more trips to Gettysburg, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I can’t believe your dad never took you there before.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not such a big fan of reenactments either,” he said, and she noticed that he looked over—almost unconsciously—at a phone booth set just off the parking lot. “It’s not like we never did
anything
, though. He used to take me fishing sometimes. We never caught much, so I’d always bring a book, and he’d get annoyed at me for reading. Great father-son bonding time, those trips.”

“Well, you do read a
lot
,” Emma teased, and he threw his napkin at her.

“It’s not like it would kill
you
to pick up a book every once in a while.”

“You sound exactly like my parents,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him. But Peter only smiled, his ears turning as red as the half-eaten lobster on his plate.

chapter fourteen